Across the room, Tad Sherrill, Betty Craig, Puny brushing something off the lapel of the chief’s new uniform, the rowdy crew from the waterworks, Ron Malcolm, Mule and Fancy, Coot in what appeared to be overalls ironed with a crease in the pant legs . . .
Captain Hogan tucked her thumbs in her gun belt and surveyed the room. ‘It’d be a great time for somebody to come in an’ rob th’ town.’
And there went Sissy and Sassy pushing Timmy and Tommy in an all-terrain vehicle resembling a double stroller, and here was Shirlene in a caftan picturing indigenous tribes in a rain forest, with parrots.
It was as good as a coronation.
• • •
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, he glanced out to the deck to see whether he’d put the cover back on the gas grill.
Sammy was sitting on the top step, holding Truman. Sammy’s back was to the door, but he could see the boy’s face in partial profile. Sam was talking to the black-and-white kitten and stroking its head and saying something.
He went to the study, where Cynthia was lying on the sofa, eyes closed.
‘Are you awake, Kav’na?’
‘Just resting my eyes.’
‘Let’s invite Sammy and Kenny and Harley over for burgers and pool this evening. What do you think?’
She smiled, eyes still closed.
‘So amazing. Puny was going to make chili tomorrow, so we have two pounds of Avis’s best. And I just bought a head of cabbage for coleslaw.’
The little miracles. Those were the ones to watch for in this life.
‘I’ll chop!’ he said.
• • •
‘I AIN’T NEVER F-FIRED UP A GRILL,’ said Sammy, who proceeded to fire up the grill, as demonstrated.
‘What if I burn th’ burgers?’
‘Not allowed. Besides, I’ll be standing right here; I won’t let it happen.’
‘Okay, what next?’
‘Next we wash our hands.’
They shared the deep sink in the garage, one of the relics installed by Cynthia’s deceased Uncle Joe Hadleigh. Very handy for a man who changed his own motor oil, which yours truly never did.
‘You might want to use more soap,’ he said.
This would be 101 all the way. He was pretty excited.
They went to the kitchen, where the goods were laid out—spatula, room-temperature ground beef on a platter, salt grinder, pepper grinder, sliced cheddar, et al.
‘Number one,’ he said, ‘is to start with beef that’s eighty-five percent lean. Any leaner than that, the burgers are dry. Avis grinds it coarse for us, not fine. A fine grind can get a little soft and fall apart on the grill. So, eighty-five percent lean, coarse grind. Next thing is, we’re not going to handle the meat too much.’
He ground salt and pepper, lightly worked it into the meat, scooped a handful, and slapped it into shape. ‘Give it a try.’
His sous chef stood transfixed for a moment, took a deep breath, and deftly shaped a thick burger.
‘Perfect.’
Sammy exhaled.
And there was Dooley, albeit above the mantel, seeming nearly present in the flesh.
They carried the platter to the deck. A biting cold. The grill was their fire pit in the heart of the cave.
For him, this was the hard part—when raw meat hits the grate, it sticks. The trick was to flip the burger the moment it released from the grate, and not before.
‘By the way, no pressing down with the spatula. The juices run out, the burger gets dry.’ He was Julia Child in her heyday, he was the entire Food Network.
‘Man.’ Sammy shook his head.
‘Not to worry. It gets easier every time you do it.’ Maybe that wasn’t completely true, but . . . somewhat.
• • •
HE HEARD THE CUE strike the ball, the sound sharp and clean to the ear. He heard Sammy whoop, heard Kenny and Harley laugh. Sam was doing what he loved, in a house with people he could almost trust.
He didn’t need to be in there pretending to learn the game. He was doing something he loved, too—cleaning up the kitchen with his wife.
• • •
CYNTHIA TURNED OFF her bedside lamp. ‘Your Burger Boot Camp was a hit.’
He lay with eyes closed, grinning.
‘A very happy party,’ she said. ‘I’m glad we invited Hélène.’
‘He did a good job, Sam.’
He didn’t want to think beyond that simple and wondrous fact.
• • •
IN THE MURPHYS’ SMALL COTTAGE three blocks away, Hope sat in bed with a book from Happy Endings.
‘Catherine,’ she said.
‘Umm,’ said Scott.
‘Hannah.’
‘Close.’
‘Rebecca?’
‘Ah.’
‘You have a try.’
A long silence, the small wind at the shutters.
‘Laurel!’ said Scott.
‘Pretty.’
Another long silence.
‘This is hard,’ said Scott.
After the long lying-in with fear, a certain joy had come, was a whole new presence in the room. They were praying about the name, of course, so no hurry, it was ready and waiting to be found. And yet she felt the mounting pressure to know their daughter’s name. They were yearning for it, really.
‘Elizabeth is always good,’ he said.
‘True.’
Naming was a peculiar exercise. One headed off in so many directions at once. In some cultures, the child wasn’t named right away, and certainly not before it was born. She spread her hands over the globe of her belly—felt the pulse of her heart beating in the waters of the gulf beneath.
The gift of this child was so miraculous, so out of proportion to human understanding, that . . . who could label such profound mystery with a name?
Chapter Twenty-four
They all felt the reward of having made great advances on the rose garden job.
Not the least of their satisfaction was the maple. Breaking new ground, even with the snow melt loosening the soil, brought the sweat, but he and Harley and Sammy got it in and tamped down the earth and spread the mulch and edged the ring and looked at each other in a way that to him seemed oddly parental.
Even so, it was time to halt their efforts ’til spring; it was too frigid to work productively. Sometime in the next few months, they would choose the stone and have it hauled to the site in May.
Harley and Sammy would have to do in winter what others did in these parts—hunker down and be glad for slim pickings. He noodled his noggin, as Uncle Billy would say, for a project that might give them income.
He pondered this on Thursday morning, as he went upstairs to Happy Endings’ second floor, to the rooms where Hope had made a home when she bought the business.
She had hung curtains at the windows facing the street and set a lamp there. When walking Barnabas to the monument in the evenings, he had relished seeing the glow above the store, had felt a certain gladness. We are not alone in this world; there is a light in the window.
And at Christmas, there was Hope’s shining tree where the lamp had been. It was nothing more than a lighted tree in a window—but in a window long dark. That had been the joy of it.
He found the printer paper and tucked it under his arm and went to the stairs. The upper floor smelled of peppermint oil, a good thing.
• • •
HE WENT ALONE to the Feel Good for a quick lunch, hoping to connect with Omer while he was at it.
‘Any thoughts?’ he asked Wanda.
‘I’m still thinkin’,’ she said, filling his tea glass.
She was wearing the cowboy hat again—not a good sign as far as her disposition for the day was concerned.
‘How could something so simple require so much thought?’ he said. ‘Six or seven people come in, behave decently, sit in a corner with relative privacy, and order breakfast. At an average cost of, say, seven bucks, that’s roughly fifty dollars’ worth of business, plus tips.’
The arched eyebrow. ‘Mighty few preachers leave tips.’
‘We’re a thrifty lot, all right.’
‘Cheap,’ she said.
‘Okay, okay.’
‘Why don’t you use a church for your prayer breakfast?’